


anything you can do (i can do with you)

by ascience



Category: Football RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: German National Team, Germany U21, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-28
Updated: 2015-05-28
Packaged: 2018-04-01 16:25:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4026790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ascience/pseuds/ascience
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marc and Bernd unintentionally share fans, a room, and then some.</p><p>("Oh, is this regular trouble or goalkeeper trouble?" Leo asks.<br/>“I’m a goalkeeper! Any kind of trouble I have is goalkeeper trouble!" Marc answers.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	anything you can do (i can do with you)

Barca’s playing a Champions League match, and as always it’s nice to be back in Germany. Marc doesn’t have homesickness, but he checks up on some familiar places and meets up with some old faces.

They win against Leverkusen, clean sheet, and that’s the part where it all starts. Only because they win, Marc decides it’s okay to sneak out and take a walk through the streets; only because Marc takes a walk through the streets, some kid notices him and asks him for an autograph.

The boy runs up to Marc from where he had been hanging with his friends and tugs at Marc’s shirt to get his attention.

“You’re that goalie, right?” the boy asks shyly, and Marc, who leans down to him, thinks it’s a bit adorable.

“Yeah, I am. You’ve got good eyes!”

Instead of replying, the boy struggles to fumble something out of his pocket and when he finally manages to after a good amount of time, he triumphantly takes a photo out of his wallet and passes it to Marc.

“Can you sign this for me?”

Surprisingly, the boy also has a pen at hand. Although Marc considers it somewhat weird to be _this_ ready for randomly meeting a football player, he’s flattered and takes both the photo and the sharpie.

“You’re almost my favourite,” the boy admits and Marc chuckles.

He doesn’t mind being second favourite next to someone like Messi, Neymar or Sua-- like Messi or Neymar anyway. Kids just tend to like the strikers better.

“So who’s your favourite then?” Marc asks and takes off the sharpie’s cap with his mouth. He starts writing his name, but already the first line comes out wonky because of the floppy paper of the photo.

“Hakan! I have his autograph on a jersey!” the boy proclaims proudly.

Marc halts in his motion and lifts the pen off the paper.

Hakan? Who the fuck is Hakan?

Marc starts doubting himself, but he’s pretty sure he knows everyone on the team and he’d know if there was a Hakan in Barcelona.  
As he digs through his memory to figure out what the boy knows that he doesn’t, Marc’s fingers slide down the side of the photo. They only covered a thin edge before, but it was a very important edge, as it turns out.

The jersey on the photo bears a Bayer Leverkusen crest, not a Barcelona or even a DFB one.

Leverkusen as in Hakan as in Hakan Calhanoglu as in definitely not Marc’s club.

For the first time, Marc really _looks_ at the photograph and all blood leaves his face when he realises that it’s not a photo of himself. It’s one of Bernd fucking Leno, goalkeeper archnemesis by trade.

Marc squints at the picture and he gets some personal redemption from the fact that the mix-up seems scarily easy. Similar hair colour, similar haircut, similar nose maybe, Marc never noticed that before. He had been staring at Leno across the pitch during the whole match the other day, but it had never occurred to him that fucking Bernd Leno might look like him.

He’s just about ready for the first existential crisis of his life.

Marc stares at the boy and the boy looks back at him expectantly, while Marc is frozen with the sharpie in his hand, wondering what the correct etiquette in a situation like this is.

“Hakan, huh?” he asks to win time, before he realises he still has the sharpie’s cap in his mouth and probably sounds like an idiot. He takes it out and repeats the question.

The boy nods as enthusiastically as before, completely untouched by Marc’s confusion.

“Bayer 04, wir stehen zu dir! Hakan is the best. But you’re great as well! Of course!“

Oh well.

 _It’s just a kid_ , Marc finally tells himself. _He’s not doing it to make fun of you._

Marc finishes his signature, but fashions the _ter_ into a crooked _Leno_. He has no idea how Leno signs his name, because he didn’t really have any reason to know before, did he? It’s not like he cares what Leno does when he’s not sitting on U21’s bench.

Marc forces a smile on his face when he gives back the photo to the grinning boy and briefly wonders how much you get for autograph forgery.

On impulse he decides to ask, “What do you think about FC Barcelona?”, although Marc doesn’t know what kind of answer he wants.

The boy pulls a face that’s both confusion and rejection, then he thanks Marc and joins his friends again.

Marc really feels like punching Leno’s face that moment.

He tells Rafinha about the mix-up when the team is on the plane back to Barcelona, but Rafinha just laughs if off.

“I have to sign photos of Thiago all the time.” he says and steals Marc’s water bottle to drink from it.

“That’s not the same thing, ugh. He’s your brother and those people know you’re not him.” Marc groans. “That boy thought I was Leno because he thought I look like him. And the worst thing is, I do!”

“It was just one kid. Find some chill, Marc.”

Marc buries his head in his hands and Rafinha pokes Marc’s side with his fingers.

“Honestly, what’s your beef with that Leno person?” Rafinha asks, because, right, he doesn’t know.

Thankfully, Marc never has to think about an answer for that because next thing, Rafinha pulls up a photo of Bernd Leno on his phone and Marc has to hold him back from showing it to the rest of the squad.

\--

Marc gets the call-up for the U21 team, of course he does. He’s still hoping to get a part in the next senior team call-up as well, but for now fighting to be No 1 in the U21 as long as he still can is enough.

He can’t help his eyes sliding down the list of players, looking for Leno’s name. It has to be there, but Marc still checks and his cheeks still heat up strangely when he finds it.

As much as Marc would like to deny it, the thoughts about the mistaken identity never leave the back of his mind.  
Of course, he’s not similar to Leno – ha, he’s much more successful for starters – but the autograph incident was like a smack across his face that left a mental bruise.

In less poetic terms: Marc can’t stop thinking about Leno.

That dickhead’s been worming his way into Marc’s life throughout all U-teams and he’s been an awfully good goalkeeper in doing so as well.

They’ve always been part of comparisons and contrasts; Marc has seen the split image collages of the two of them. But that’s football, and even if Marc is involuntarily facing the similarities now, he’s always just here to win. Never mind the name of the game.

When Marc arrives at the team’s hotel for the week, the woman at the reception desk immediately recognizes and greets him.

She hands him his personal key card and folder with information about the hotel, and Marc almost doesn’t believe it when he reads _Bernd Leno_ on the card.

“Uhm, sorry, that’s not mine.” he says and feels really dumb about it, like he’s the one embarrassing himself here and like he should just take the card.

“Good Lord, I apologize!” the woman replies and gets really flustered. She looks at Marc, then at her documents, then checks the list on her computer for an endlessly long time. “I’m so sorry! I could have sworn you’re that goalkeeper, Bernd Leno!”

Marc sighs and slides the key card back to her. He doesn’t even have the strength to freak out about it anymore.

“Yeah, I- I am.” he says, “I mean, I’m not. I’m the goalkeeper, but Bernd Leno is the other one. My name’s ter Stegen.”

The woman clicks around on the computer a couple of times, then she finally gives Marc his real key card.

“Again, I’m so sorry. I thought I knew all you guys by name and face, but you have to admit you two could be twins.” she says with a smile that implies she’s kidding, but Marc can’t really take the joke.

A new batch of team members arrives behind Marc, among them Moritz and Leo, as usual arm in arm. The two are gossip kings extraordinaire so Marc grabs his things quickly, waves off the receptionist’s apologies and flees before it might get awkward.

Marc is looking forward to resting for some time before lunch, but even that hope is destroyed when he opens the door to his hotel room and finds two beds.

Marc frowns. He’s not used to sharing with anyone at U21 anymore, and he had been put in single rooms ever since the incident with Leno that ended in a broken table and two black eyes.

Timo maybe? Kevin? Hrubesch must have some reason for getting Marc a twin room, and Marc won’t fight about it, but he sure as hell will be a bit annoyed.

Marc sighs and gets his earbuds out of his backpack, but before he can lie down and get some rest, the door to the hall opens.

Bernd Leno – of all annoying people with blond hair on this godforsaken planet – steps in and dumps his suitcase on the floor with a loud bang, staring right at Marc.

“You.” Leno says disapprovingly and he spits the word like saliva on the pitch.

Marc clenches his jaw, but stops immediately when he sees Leno doing the same thing.

They stand across from each other with the bed separating them, staring at each other. Maybe it’s because of the mix-up, but Marc involuntarily starts sizing Leno up, starts comparing how Leno holds his shoulder to the way he holds his own.

It’s pointless, and Marc huffs because of the absurdity of his thoughts.

“This one is your bed.” he says and points at the bed between them. It’s the one that’s closer to the door, ergo whoever sleeps in it will be murdered first in case a killer comes in. Perfect.

“Oh, you get to decide that?” Leno asks sharply, but before anything can escalate, he shrugs. “You know what, Marc? Whatever.”

Leno kicks his suitcase under the bed and leaves the room as quickly as he entered it.

Marc knows he should feel more comfortable now, but when he lies down, his palms itch like he wants to hit something. Or someone.

He turns from side to side a couple of times before he decides he will never find calm with the devil’s (read: Leno’s) vague presence in the room.

His watch confirms that it’s late enough to head to lunch, so Marc grabs his phone and key card and takes the elevator down to the dining hall.

Half of the team has already sat down and is happily munching away on food. Marc high fives Philipp and Julian, before he goes to sit with Moritz and Leonardo.

“Hey, guys, good to see you again.” Marc says. “So what are you up to?”

“Who says we’re up to anything?” Mo and Leo answer almost unisono, causing Marc to laugh and shake his head.

He gets up again to get his plate of noodles (why always noodles? what’s wrong with literally every other type of food?) and when he returns, Mo has started feeding Leo from his plate.

With no conversation to entertain him, Marc eats his noodles and lets his gaze wander through the room as it fills up with the rest of the players.

Leno is sitting at the far end of the room, talking to Loris and Yunus. He’s laughing, which is probably only an unsettling sight because Marc’s never really been there to witness is or at least focus on it.

Fortunately though, Marc is also able to confirm that he definitely doesn’t look like Leno at all, _okay_? Because no other person in this world holds their knife in the same idiotic way as Leno does – Marc certainly doesn’t.

His observations are rudely interrupted by Leo waving a hand in front of his face and also hitting him in the process.

“Daydreaming?” Leo asks. “What are you staring at?”

“Leno,” Marc answers truthfully and shovels a forkful of noodles into his mouth before he realises what he just said.

Mo and Leo share a meaningful look where they probably think Marc can’t see them.

“That old story?” Moritz asks with amusement. “You’re not planning to beat him up again, are you?”

“I can’t promise anything,” Marc says grimly. “We’re sharing a room.”

The statement surprises Mo and Leo as much as the fact surprised Marc.

“What? Hrubesch paired _you guys_ up, but Moritz and I aren’t even in the same wing?” Leo asks.

“Don’t talk bullshit, everyone knows you’re just going to not-so-secretly change rooms,” Marc snorts, while he pushes the noodles around on his plate. He catches himself glancing at Leno again, who isn’t doing anything specific apart from sitting and talking, but still doing everything to piss Marc off.

“So why don’t you?”

“Why don’t I what?”

“Change rooms, duh. I bet, like, Jean or one of the new kids would totally let you sleep in his bed.”

Marc frowns and lightly smacks the back of Leonardo’s head.

“As if. If I change rooms, I’m letting Leno win without a fight.” Marc explains. “And honestly? Punch me if I ever do that. Number One is what I have, and Number One is what I want.”

Mo and Leo don’t seem to get how important all that is, because everything’s a joke to them, so they laugh and Marc is very close to sticking out his tongue to them.

“Everything’s a debate of principles for you, huh?” Leo asks, and Marco kind of wants to tell him about the autograph mix-up, because yes, this is a fucking debate on the principle of him not being Bernd fucking Leno. “Goalies are weird as hell, dude.”

“Just make sure it doesn’t affect our games!” Moritz butts in, grinning, imitating Kevin’s rolled Rs.

A group of guys leaves the dining room and they all have to pass their table to get to the shelf for the returned dishes. Leno is among them and, fuck, this is becoming a problem.

“Just don’t kill Bernd,” Moritz advices under his breath and Marc groans. “Because if you go to jail, we’d need a substitute but you’d have already killed him. Don’t kill him.”

Marc doesn’t stick out his leg to make Leno fall when Leno passes him. Baby steps.

\--

The first training is alright, mostly because Marc gets paired up with Loris. Loris is a laid-back guy and is able to fill an entire conversation with talks about his newest snapback without it seeming one-sided.

Loris and Marc kick and catch the ball in the first segment, then they switch with Timo and Leno to do stepping exercises right next to the goal.

Leno jumps to catch the balls Timo delivers into the corners, and Marc hates to see that he gets almost every single shot. Leno is taller and from Marc’s perspective, the few centimetres really matter. In addition, the way Leno throws his shoulder forward with every save is so different from the way Marc sees himself in the goal that Marc almost has to laugh.

He doesn’t bite his lips in expectation of the shots either, but Leno’s are always red with teeth marks. Talk about the two of them being similar, ha.

When the trainer blows the whistle for the final run of the afternoon training, Leno immediately yanks his gloves from his hands and strides towards Marc.

Marc doesn’t know what he’s done wrong now, but it has to be something, judging from the way Leno almost fumes.

“Can you stop staring at me for one damn minute during training?” Leno hisses and gets uncomfortably far up into Marc’s personal space. “I get it. Every mistake I make turns you on, but don’t be so obvious about it. God.”

Before Marc has the chance to reply, Leno jogs away, head held high, and Marc has to admit that he probably _did_ stare at Leno.

The somewhat troubled feeling in Marc’s stomach grows, when he starts the last round as well and a number of fans on the sidelines call and wave him nearer.  
Two men in Leverkusen jerseys wag pens and autograph cards, and Marc grimaces. He’s really not in the mood to fake another autograph so he just trods towards them, shaking his head.

At least these two seem to have better eyes and realise their mistake when Marc comes closer and turns out to, well, not be Leno.

Marc still signs some of the photos the other fans hand him, even though Hrubesch probably won’t be too delighted about that.

Marc finishes his round, his eyes somehow always finding their way back to Leno. He groans.

Their whole rivalry, their whole _thing_ used to be based on ignoring each other to the point of staring straight forward when sitting next to each other.

But, well, then again, Marc’s whole thing used to be based on being recognised as himself and not as any old Tom, Dick or Bernd who thinks he can save a penalty.

The trainer blows the whistle for the last time today and everyone walks back into the changing rooms, more or less exhausted.

Moritz and Leonardo still have enough energy to squabble, but Marc longs for the good rest he missed out on early that day.

Marc eats and drinks a bit at dinner, but he heads to the elevator up pretty early to the confusion of the other guys who also see the national team as a perfect opportunity to party.

 _His and_ Leno’s _room_ , one half of Marc’s brain helpfully provides; _thanks a lot and fuck you_ , the other half replies.

Back in the room, Marc sends some texts and checks facebook, but rather soon he already lies down in bed. Being well-rested is the most important part and Marc would be damned before he would let himself slip up during this international break.

He’s not asleep yet but drowsy, when the door opens and Leno walks in.

Even in the dim light, Marc notices that Leno sees him, probably assumes Marc is sleeping and takes care to make less noise as he takes of his shoes. Marc is almost touched since it’s the friendliest gesture Leno has ever put towards him since the U16.

Next thing, Leno just – Leno just stands there motionless next to his bed with his shoes in his hand. Marc wonders what Leno is doing until he realises that Leno is staring right at him.

Watching people in their sleep? Ugh, just another point of weirdness in Leno’s profile.

Marc squints at Leno, trying to mentally force him to look away. It doesn’t work so Marc shuffles like he would in his sleep and the sound wakes Leno up from his trance.

Leno mutters something unintelligible to himself, drops the shoes and walks into the bathroom from which Marc can hear the sound of the shower a minute later.

Another fifteen minutes later, Leno steps out of the bathroom again in only a pair of shorts. Not that it fucking matters.

The wet strands of hair hang over Leno’s forehead and the light from outside throws shadows under Leno’s brows. Like this, his appearance really doesn’t remind one of Marc at all anymore.  
Leno looks more candid and ...softer, and Marc wonders whether the hell that thought came from.

Next to him, Leno gets into bed as well, and Marc bitterly turns around to face the wall.

\--

Marc has a fucking surreal dream that night. He’s standing in front of the mirror in his bathroom in Barcelona and leans down to wash his face. When he looks up again, he’s not looking at his mirror image anymore but at Leno, in the flesh.  
In the dream, it doesn’t scare Marc, it somehow makes him happy.  
Dream Leno smiles, reaches for Marc’s face, _kisses_ him on the damn lips and –

Marc wakes up with a yelp that could be either a muffled scream of horror or a suppressed moan of arousal.

It takes a few moments for him to reorientate himself and catch his breath. He doesn’t want to think about anything right now.

Marc’s had sex dreams, a number of them about men and an embarrassing number about team mates as well, but this? This wasn’t even about sex, that was tender and _nice_ and so awfully Leno.

Marc feels dizzy and kind of wants to hurl.

The other bed is empty, but Leno sticks his head through the bathroom door, clasping a hand over the phone he’s holding. Judging from the darkness outside, it must be 4 am in the morning or maybe even earlier.

Marc is strangely reminded of the night that he punched Leno and Leno punched him, all because they were riding on their low from a devastating loss. Leno had been on the phone with his mom that night, loudly complaining about how maybe he should have been in the goal and it might have ended better then. Marc had just wanted to sleep, but in the end he snapped and yelled at Leno, and at some point they had been hitting each other.  
Marc still remembers the following talk with Hrubesch with fear.

Leno apparently hasn’t quit his habit of late night phone calls to various family members, but tonight he seems the opposite of agitated.

“You okay?” he says with a low voice and an emotionless face, and Marc figures Leno is asking because he heard his yelp.

“Fine. I’m fine.” Marc answers roughly and buries his face in his pillow.

“Sorry, just asking. Won’t make that mistake again.” Leno huffs and pulls a face. Marc wonders whether the person he’s calling is still on the phone.

“Dude. It’s like 4 am. Shouldn’t you be sleeping?”

Leno raises his eyebrows. “What’s it to you?”

“We all need to get our rest.” Marc answers, like this is just about football. “Italy’s not an easy opponent.”

“If I don’t play, I don’t need to be rested.”

With that statement, Leno lifts the phone to his ear again and closes the bathroom door behind him.

Marc has no fucking clue how to make sense of his dream or of the way they’ve started interacting or of the way Leno’s last sentence almost makes Marc feel bad – so Marc just turns around and tries to sleep.

When he wakes up again three hours later, Leno’s bed is already made and he’s gone. That guy makes about as much sense as the IKEA assembly instructions.

Marc tries not to, but he thinks about Leno during breakfast and during the team’s morning training.  
It’s definitely a capital P problem now, especially when Kevin easily scores against him, because Marc is looking at Leno to make sure Leno isn’t looking at him, too.

Kevin falls over laughing after the ball whizzes right past Marc’s head and Marc shouts at him to shut up, as he grabs the ball from behind himself.

The worst part happens when the trainer calls Leno’s name, and Marc’s first impulse is to react, for absolutely no other reason than his mind being all scrambled.

He’s certainly handling a minor case of identity crisis, and it’s getting in the way of his goalkeeping, and that’s the one thing that Marc cannot let happen.

Marc would talk to Rafinha about it if he was in Barcelona right now. He isn’t though, so he considers talking to Kevin, because Kevin is a good guy and a good friend. But he would probably take this as a chance for some whack team-building exercise like, “Hey, kissing each other is a perfect way to connect to your team mates and get to know their boundaries! I’d like to thank Marc for this brilliant idea.”

Marc’s best bet is Leonardo (and in consequence Moritz) which is the reason why Marc is sitting on Moritz’s bed (once Max’s bed before he was softly bullied into switching), opposite of Leonardo after lunch.

“Bro, how can I help you?” Leo asks, while kicking off his shoes and showing off his dirty socks. “You know I’m always here for you. Well, when we’re on the national team. I’m not here when you’re in Barcelona. Because I’m not in Barcelona.”

“I get it. Thanks.” Marc rolls his eyes. “It’s about Leno.”

Leo doesn’t even bat an eyelash, although it’s maybe the third time in years that Marc voluntarily steered the conversation towards the topic of Leno.

“Oh, is this regular trouble or goalkeeper trouble?” Leo asks and makes himself comfortable for what hopefully shouldn’t be a long conversation.

“I’m a goalkeeper! Any kind of trouble I have is goalkeeper trouble! And frankly it’s discriminating that you guys relate everything I do back to it.” Marc answers.

Leo just grins, showing his teeth.

“If it’s goalkeeper trouble, I can give you Neuer’s number,” he says proudly.

“You have Neuer’s number?”

“No,” Leo admits, “but I have Mats’ number and he has Höwedes’ number and he has Neuer’s number.”

Marc shakes his head. He doesn’t have time for this, he has to return to the actual problem.

“Look, it’s regular trouble. Two things, actually, but they’re related and they screw up my performance on the field so I need to talk about it.”

Leo nods eagerly, happy to absorb the gossip. Marc sighs and tells him about the mix-up with the fans and the woman at the reception. He doesn’t mention the dream at first. _It doesn’t matter_ , he tells himself.

When Marc is done, Leo cocks his head.

“We should have known that there’d be more to come, after you two gave each other black eyes.” Leo says thoughtfully. “So you want an answer from me now? Whether you look like him?”

Marc nods, then he shakes his head and it results in a shudder that probably makes him seem like he has no control over his body.

“Well,” Leo drawls, and Marc actually holds his breath. “Yes. Yes. You _do_ look similar. You know I can’t lie to you, brother. Bernd and you look like siblings at the moment.”

Marc groans and lets himself fall back onto the bed. Not the answer he needed. Leo pokes Marc’s leg with his toe to get a reaction out of him.

“It’s bullshit,” Marc says, staring at ceiling. “Like for one, his face is much squarer than mine.”

“Squarer? Is that all you got? Wait a sec,” Leo says and turns his head to call into the other room. “Moooooooritz?”

Moritz instantly follows the call and shows up in the door frame, not even surprised about Marc on his bed.

“Mo, do Bernd and Marc look like creepy twins?” Leo asks. Marc regrets every single choice he’s ever made in his life.

“Duh.” Moritz answers like it’s a completely natural question and doesn’t even look at Marc. “Ever since Bernd got that haircut, it’s a perfect fit. I almost tagged him wrong in a pic once.”

Leo turns back to Marc and shrugs apologetically. “Also, Bernd is still taller than you. No offense.”

Marc presses his eyes shut and rubs his hand across them until he sees tiny stars. It seems somewhat irrelevant now, considering the _other_ thing that also happened, but then again, the things affected each other. Fuck Marc’s life, to be honest.

“Anyway, that’s not everything.,“ Marc continues bravely. “I had a dream that Leno kissed me.”

There’s silence for a moment, and it’s probably what Marc expected. Leno and him had been rivals up until... now? They still are and he’s not sure whether he thought those words would ever leave his mouth.

“You had a dream that Bernd kissed you?” Leonardo asks with wide eyes, but Marc can see the curious glint in them. “Mo? Did you hear that? Marc had a dream that Bernd kissed him.”

Mo nods slowly, a tiny mischievous smile on his face.

“Marc had a dream that Bernd kissed him.” he repeats.

“Marc had a dream that Bernd kissed him.” Leo says once again.

Marc had a dream? No, Marc’s had enough.

“Christ. If I had known I’d get advice this great, I’d have talked to you guys much earlier,” he says sarcastically and moves to get away from Mo and Leo.

“Aw, no, come back!” Mo pleads and Marc rolls his eyes, but he stays.

He also tells them as much about the dream as he remembers. Marc makes an effort to keep a grim face during the whole explanation and only stutters once when he talks about the kiss.

“I still hate him though,” he adds, but he’s not sure what to believe.

Mo and Leo exchange a meaningful look and Marc feels like he’s talking to his gay uncles or something.

“I could pull some explanation out of my ass,” Mo starts, “about how this is just your subconscious handling your identity crisis or some weird twin complex, but, man, to be honest, maybe –“

Leo interrupts him and finishes the sentences for him.

“Maybe you’re just into him. He’s an attractive lad. I guess.”

Before Mo can launch into a sermon about how tension comes in many forms, Marc is out of room, trying to find a flat surface to hit his head on.

\--

Marc thinks a lot about it during the afternoon training, which is the opposite of what he’d usually do. He tends to clear his mind whenever he’s standing in the goal and puts all his focus on the ball, on the game.

This time, however, Marc thinks about the kiss. Or, well, he thinks about what Leonardo said.

Leno might be his enemy, but, looking at him through a neutral lense, Marc can see the... appeal. Leno has dumb small dimples when he smiles, and his forehead crinkles in concentration when he listens to whatever stoned shit Loris is telling him now.

Marc catches himself wondering whether his lips are really as soft as they seemed in the dream and slaps himself with his gloves still on.

The thoughts really ruin his training and the trainer acknowledges it by giving Marc another four rounds to run while the others already gather the equipment and leave for their precious free time.

Marc takes the punishment without objections, because he knows better than that.

As always, there are some fans watching the training, and the fact that they call Leno’s name when Marc jogs past them, is about as surprising as the daily news at this point.

Marc can’t escape them this time, and the fans don’t fucking cease. So he repeats his first crime and messily signs Leno’s name with a strained smile.

Before Marc can sign the last photo, someone suddenly grabs his jersey from behind and hauls him back so forcefully it almost gives him whiplash.

Marc stumbles over his own feet, but is pulled up by the person holding his shirt. He turns to find Leno, furious and with a flushed face, who never loosens his grip on Marc and drags him after himself across the training grounds, back to their locker rooms.

Leno is surprisingly strong and Marc feels like a puppet, only able to wave the fans goodbye with a reassuring smile that probably doesn’t come across as such.

At some point, Marc doesn’t try to dig his heels into the ground anymore and let’s Leno do his thing, because Marc’s actually curious what the hell is happening here.

When they arrive in the hallway, Leno opens the door to the locker rooms and checks Marc into the room with his shoulder.

Marc hurries to straighten himself to stand as tall as he can. The room around them is a mess, with dirty pieces of clothing spread across the floor.

Leno glowers at him and Marc does his best to glower back.

“What the fuck, Marc? Don’t even try to explain what just happened.” Leno says, clenching his hands.

“I could ask you the same!” Marc replies, but there’s no fire behind it. He knows he has fucked up and Leno knows he’s fucked up.

Leno snorts and shows Marc the bird. “Don’t play innocent. What you just did is illegal, you know? You forged my autograph! And I know fuck all about why you did it, except that you fucking hate me.”

“It’s not my fault.” Marc says through gritted teeth. “I can explain.”

“Oh, can you? The way you can also explain why I am always benched although you don’t even get to play in your league?”

“That’s not—“

Marc doesn’t get the chance to get a word in, because Leno interrupts him. His voice is angry, but also a bit exhausted, like someone who’s ready for a fight but would have to walk home to get their knife beforehand.

“What, you take my fans from me as well now? Because you think you can get anything with your pretty little smile? Starting position isn’t enough? Jesus Christ, you’re such a dick.”

Leno looks genuinely hurt and Marc almost wants to walk over to him and put a calming hand on his shoulder. Almost. If Leno doesn’t kill him first.

“I just don’t want to be second choice anymore.” Leno adds quietly.

Marc doesn’t reply. He knows he should but he can’t find anything to say that his ego agrees with. _You should be No. 1?_ Marc’s too selfish for that. And he still remembers the black eye.

Leno doesn’t continue speaking either. He kicks a shin pad that’s lying in his way against the wall, then he takes one, two, three steps to close in on Marc.

He raises his hand, and Marc closes his eyes and braces for a punch, because god knows Marc would punch him if the roles were reversed.

Leno isn’t about to punch him. Marc only realises that fact when Leno pulls Marc’s head closer and smashes their lips together.

Leno’s nails dig into Marc’s neck, but Marc just thinks, _Shit._

At first, it’s surprise, then it’s a sting of pain where Leno’s teeth bruise Marc’s lips. Then it’s a feeling of déjà vu, back to the dream where Leno had been much gentler. Then, before anything else can bloom in Marc’s chest, it’s mostly just—over.

Leno pushes Marc back as if he wasn’t the one who initiated the kiss, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“There,” Leno says defiantly with a choked voice. “Now you know.”

Marc’s throat is dry as fuck, and Marc doesn’t reply. Don’t get this wrong, he wants to say something, he wants to do a lot of things right now, but he doesn’t where to start. Leno still thinks Marc’s an asshole (perhaps true) who beat him up years ago (true) and deliberately deceives Leno’s fans now (not true).

Marc opens his mouth, then he closes it again, rinse and repeat. He looks like a bad singer who has lost the music to his lip-synching. Fuck.

Leno sighs and runs his fingers through his hair.

“Look, Marc, if you don’t get it like this, I think any other explanation is pretty much wasted on you.” he says and nods jerkily, before he turns around on his heels and walks out on Marc, still wearing his goalkeeper kit.

\--

“Did you punch him?”

Marc groans. Leonardo grins.

“What? No?” Marc says and throws Moritz a pleading look. “That’s the whole point of what I just told you. I didn’t do anything.”

While it still mostly seems like it was just another dream, Leno had kissed Marc. Marc didn’t hate it. Liked it, even. Denial is, after all, just a river in Egypt.

“Well _yeah_ ,” Leo says, “but since you’re not here to ask us to bury a body with you, I really don’t get why you don’t just talk to him. With words. What’s the worst that could happen? Him getting the spot in the starting eleven?”

Moritz softly _ooooooh_ s but is smart enough to shut up when Marc glares at him.

Marc can’t backtalk much though, because Leo is right after all. So Marc walks back to his room and decides to wait here for Leno.

Leno’s probably in the gym, because that’s what Timo said he likes to do when he’s done with everything.

Marc sits on _Leno’s_ bed for totally, completely rational reasons that he’d prefer to remain undisclosed and waits. In the end, he even skips dinner, because he’s worried Leno might slip past him somehow.

It pays off, as Leno stomps into the room in the same way he did on the first day. When he faces Marc, he halts for a second, before ignoring him and turning to his case to dig through it.

It doesn’t look like Leno is actually searching for something, more like he’s passing time and trying to breathe through the tension.

“Hey,” Marc says once to get Leno’s attention, then, as no reaction follows, repeats it louder a second time.

Leno takes a deep breath, before he turns around.

“Why don’t you piss off into the senior team, huh? Would solve quite a number of my problems.”

Marc gets up from the bed and walks up to Leno.

“Please, just let me explain.” Marc begs. “You know I wouldn’t give a shit about you if this was just about football. But it’s not. I’m not as much of a dick as you think I am, at least... outside of the stadium.”

Marc takes Leno’s wrist although it’s unnecessary, because Leno doesn’t move away. He just stands there, flaring his nostrils.

“Alright, uhm,” Marc starts, “so there are two – three? – no, two things we should probably talk about. The first thing is sort of your new haircut’s fault.”

Leno stares at Marc like he just told him to score a goal next match. But Marc explains as well as he can, from the boy with the autograph to the woman at the reception desk to the fans to him working through some issues – and the two of them end up in the bathroom in front of the mirror.

“I guess I can see it. Kind of.” Leno says clinically, frowning at his mirror image. “Except your face is, uh. More Angular. And your ears are, uh, yeah.”

That’s a comment that Marc will kindly overlook, thanks. He’s not in the mood to start a fight with Leno now that everything is going so well.

“What’s the second thing?” Leno asks.

“Huh?”

“You said there are two things. What’s the second thing?”

Oh. Right.

Marc looks at the two of them in the mirror, then at the real Leno in front of him. It’s something of an instinct really, the inner push that makes you either jump left or right on a penalty kick. The adrenalin type of impulse.

Marc kisses Leno. He’s more careful than Leno was in the locker room, and somehow it all fits together pretty well. It’s not sweet, but Marc wouldn’t want it to be. They haven’t worked on their tension for years throughout the teams to make this _boring_.

He breaks the kiss, waiting for Leno’s reaction, trying to ignore the voice inside his head telling him that it’d be also kind of hot if Leno was angry about this.

“That’s... it?” Leno says slowly, and it’s fucking unbelievable. He just enjoyed a kiss by Marc-André ter Stegen and that’s his fucking answer.

“Well, Jesus fucking Christ,” Marc replies. “I’m sorry that’s not enough for you, Mr Connoisseur!”

Before Marc can work himself into a rage, Leno pushes him out of the bathroom.

“That’s not what I meant, you dickhead. Just. Don’t talk.”

Leno put his lips on Marc’s again, except this kiss turns open-mouthed and messy soon, and the events of the past days turn into fog inside of Marc’s head, because, fuck, that’s Leno’s tongue in his mouth and Leno’s hand under his shirt.

Marc drags Leno onto a bed (he doesn’t know whether it’s Leno’s or his own) because he hasn’t had a good make-out session in ages, but turns out Leno is not a man of his own words.

Instead of continuing this brand new discovery, he stops and tilts his head.

“By the way, is there something wrong with my first name, dude?” he asks and it throws Marc off majorly.

Bernd? It might not be the greatest of names, but there’s nothing really wrong with it.

“What? Why?” Marc asks, although he has trouble focusing on this right now.

“You call me Leno,” Leno, ah, Bernd explains and shrugs.

Marc frowns and squirms under Bernd’s hands. Bernd is fucking unflappable when he thinks that his name is the most important thing right now. He should be grateful that Marc knows it at all, since it’s not the one printed on Bernd’s jersey.

“What? No, I just. Your name. I never.“ Marc manages to say and captures Bernd’s lips with his again in lieu of an answer.

Bernd snorts and wiggles his hand further down Marc’s trousers.

“You’re abhorrent.”

Marc doesn’t manage to say “You too” anymore between his gasps.

\--

The next morning Marc is woken up when someone flings a photo and a pen at his face and the latter hits him right on the nose.

Through sleepy eyes Marc squints up at Bernd, who is already in complete training clothes. For a second, Marc fears that he might have overslept, but a look at his watch confirms that it’s actually only about hail-satan o’clock in the damn morning.

“If you’re gonna do it, you might as well do it right.” Bernd says and points at the items on Marc’s bed. Marc turns the photo around and finds Bernd’s signature on it. It’s far from what Marc had faked so far. “If you ever have to pretend to be me again. I mean, I understand. I’m pretty cool.”

Marc raises his eyebrows and gives Bernd a once-over.

“Where are you going? It’s too early for breakfast.” he says and doesn’t mention that Bernd looks pretty neat with gel in his hair and the hickey on his neck.

“Personal training. I don’t know about you, but I want to be number one.”

 _It’s cute how hard he’s trying_ , Marc thinks, then _Oh god, what’s happening to me?  
_ But he can’t stop himself from grinning sleepily anymore, so he tries to hide it in the crook of his elbow.

“What’s with the creepy smile?” Bernd asks disapprovingly.

“Nothing, forget it,” Marc says and turns around to get as much sleep as he can until his alarm clock rings.

Doesn’t mean he doesn’t catch the glimpse of the equally dopey smile on Leno’s face though.

**Author's Note:**

> I want you to remember two things:  
> a) I'm laying ground for future fic generations here.  
> b) John 8:7
> 
> No, but I hope this was as fun for you as it was for me!  
> I moved around some facts and dates and parts of reality for the purpose of the story, and even though I once was only 50 metres away from the U21 team, I don't really know enough about them.
> 
> Find me on twitter [here](https://twitter.com/anexactscience) and [here](https://twitter.com/kissthecrest).


End file.
